


One Week

by levele3



Series: Sherlock&Shakespeare [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adlock, Angst, Arguing, Asexual Sherlock, Bromance, Epic Bromance, F/M, Gen, Lesbian Irene, Light Angst, Minor Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes, Multi, References to Hamlet, References to Shakespeare, Rescue, Shakespeare Quotations, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and Relationships, Verbal Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 07:45:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1543055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levele3/pseuds/levele3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being rescued Irene has to deal with sharing a Karachi hotel room with Sherlock for one week. Can the two of them be civil enough to survive seven days together?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Run

**Author's Note:**

> I have been working on this idea for a long time, since November. I had written most of it when I suddenly lost the muse, having recently been bitten by the writing bug I have been inclined to finish it.  
> The title for this fic comes from the song One Week- by the Barenaked Ladies. If you are not familiar with the song you can listen to it or read the lyrics but it's not necessary.  
> Obviously this takes place after Scandal and before my other fic The World's A Stage. 
> 
> I own nothing, belongs to BBC, Moff, Mark, and ACD

“Run”

Sherlock’s voice had been low and almost seductive, meant only for her ears. It was an order, not a request, one that would save her life.

“Run” he had said, and so, she did.

They made a mad dash to a waiting car, Sherlock heroically slicing down anyone in their way.

“Dead men tell no tales.” He would say later.

Once inside the black Audi with full leather interior, Irene collapsed. She collapsed from exhaustion, and excursion, from lack of food and water. The last thing she remembered was Sherlock sliding in beside her and yelling at the driver to go. A strong arm around her shaking shoulders.

That had been two days ago.

Day3: 

Irene had awoken in a soft warm bed, something she had been denied for weeks now. It had taken a few minutes of blinking into the bright room to realized that no, she wasn’t dreaming, and yes she was alive. Irene felt she was in too much pain to be dead. Every time she moved something hurt. Looking to her left Irene notice a makeshift IV was hooked up to her arm dripping saline fluid into her blood steam.

Looking around the room Irene deduced she was in a hotel room, not a private home. The space lacked anything personal. The room only contained one king-sized bed, a bedside table with an alarm clock and lamp on it, a chair and lamp in the other corner, and a dresser that took up the wall opposite Irene. The bed was on the same wall as the door, and the light was coming through a window that only had thin white curtains. Irene was grateful there was no mirror she dared not see if she looked as bad as she felt. Irene came to the conclusion it must be one of those rooms with a separate sleeping area. The bathroom and probably a little sitting area would be on the other side of the door.

The events of her rescue slowly drifted back to her and Irene vaguely wondered if Sherlock was still around. He was probably long gone, having left her in the care of someone else. She attempted to sit up but that only sent a pain shooting up her spine and she sunk back into the mattress.

Just then the door opened and a man Irene didn’t know looked in. He wasn’t short, but he wasn’t quite as tall as Sherlock, he had a friendly enough face that Irene didn’t feel the need to scream. He had short brown hair and hazel eyes that peaked out from behind thick rimmed, black Buddy Holly glasses, and a naturally tanned completion.

He flashed a smile at her, then turned and spoke into the room beyond the door. “She’s awake.” He said.

American, Irene thought, possibly New York. It was hard to tell, they all sounded the same to her.

Someone in the other room gave a muffled reply to the man at the door, and he looked back in at her. “Is there anything I can get for you?” he asked.

Irene tried to speak but her voice came out dry and rough “wa…er” she was so parched from not haven spoken aloud for a few days.

The American smiled at her knowingly and dashed off presumably to fetch a glass of water. He left the door slightly ajar and Irene could hear the movements of another person in the other room. The door to the hotel opened and closed again and the American was at her side with a glass of iced water.

She smiled weakly at him in thanks before gulping down half the cup.

“Whoa, slow down” he said “you don’t want to drink it all in one go.”

Irene set the cup down on the bedside table and managed to croak out a “thank you.”

“I also brought you these.” The man held out some pain medication and Irene took it gladly.

“I’m Harold Tubbs, by the way.” He said straightening up he touched the back of his hand to her forehead. “You can call me Harry though, or-” he was cut off by a shout from the other room “TUBBS”

Tubbs hung his head in defeat, “I’ll be back” he promised Irene as he left, this time latching the door behind him.

Irene was still in shock. The shout had defiantly come from Sherlock. Irene was sure that he would have had no desire to stick around after her rescue; after all they had nothing to say to each other. Apparently that was not the case.

A few hours later Irene was feeling well rested if a bit dirty. She felt stiff from lying down for two days straight but no additional discomfort the medication must be working. Looking at the bedside table she noticed two more pills and a full glass of water. Also someone had taken out her IV while she slept. Irene swallowed one of the pills with half of the water and attempted to stand up.

There was a gentle knock at the door.

“Come in.” Irene managed to say in a voice that betrayed how much she was shaking on the inside.

Tubbs popped his head in the door again, “how are you feeling now?” he asked.

“Better, thanks. I’d love a wash though.”

“Of course, no problem. Your friend has gone for a walk I’ll just wait outside until you’re done.” He turned to go “unless you needed help” he added a little too eagerly.

\---------------------------------------------

The hot water felt amazing, cascading over Irene’s hair and running down her back. It was worth the bit of pain she had to endure to get there by herself. The look on Tubbs face when she coly dismissed him was priceless. Irene had finished washing up a few minutes but still refused to move from under the shower head. Everywhere the water touched her felt great, but she could only stand up for so long, she could feel her legs weakening beneath her. Heaven forbid she need Sherlock’s rescuing from a shower as well.

Irene used one of the large white fluffy towels to dry off and wrapped it around her body to preserve her modesty on the way to the bedroom. She need not have worried though for all was quite. The main area of the hotel room consisted of a sofa that undoubtedly folded out into a bed, a fine wooden desk with leather chair at it, a TV across from the sofa, and a chair and lamp in the far corner. Irene made her way back into the bedroom and was relieved to see a fresh set of clothes had been laid out for her.

The outfit was nothing special just a pair of jeans and a plain top, as well as necessary under garments. Everything fit perfectly of course; Sherlock knew her measurements after all. Although why he found them important enough to keep stored away in his memory Irene couldn’t say. She was brushing out her damp hair when the door outside opened up and someone entered. Irene tensed for only a moment when she realised it was Sherlock.

Irene pressed her ear to the door, it sounded like he was having quite the conversation with someone. The door muffled all sounds so she cracked it open a smidge to better listen in.

“Yes, I’m in the hotel room now” he said, rather impatiently. _Ah, he must be on the phone._ A beat “I told you I’d be gone for about a week, surely you can handle one minor-” he huffed as the person on the other end cut him off. “Lestrade knows I’m abroad.”

He must be talking to John Irene thought with a ping of envy. It would be nice to call someone and let them know she was alright, but there wasn’t anyone to call.

“Well tell Mycroft to keep his pants on.” Sherlock was showing how much he hated getting orders from his brother, especially second hand through John. Sherlock hadn’t set down upon entering the room and was instead pacing about chatting away into his mobile. He passed a little too close to the door and Irene could hear John’s light reply “You mean like you do?”

Sherlock huffed “if you’re referring to the incident with the sheet in Buck-”he was cut off again and suddenly broke out into a deep rumbling laugh. There was that _ping_ again. Irene was jealous that someone could make Sherlock laugh like that. It was that noise he was capable of when he was happy then Irene wanted a reason to make him laugh every day.

Irene steadied herself and opened the door a little wider and made her way into the room just as Sherlock settled into the chair and flicked on the lamp. “Nothing you can’t handle. I’ll be home by Saturday, I promise. Send my love to Mycroft.” And with that he hung up the phone. A ghost of a smile was still on his lips and a bright light in his eyes that made Irene stall.

“Ah, Miss Adler decided to join the world of the waking have we?” Sherlock sounded like he didn’t really care one way of the other, but he had gone through an awful lot to save her, Irene thought.

“Yes, thanks, with no help from you I might add.” She teased at him playfully. Now that she was well rested she wanted a verbal sparring match.

He only raised an eyebrow at her to form a question. She had to know the only reason she was alive at all was because of him, but he was in no mood to goad her.

“Doesn’t the rescuer usually have to kiss the princess to wake her up?” Irene supplied, raising her own eyebrows.

“Dull.” He supplied, what was with this woman did she really not understand.

“Then why bother saving me at all?” _shit, shit, shit_. She had asked the question she wasn’t going to ask. The one she didn’t want to know the answer to.

“I… well because….I, not important.” He finally huffed out rather sternly.

For a moment Irene was taken aback. She hadn’t exactly expected a confession but nor was she expecting total denial, total rejection. They had a past, a history, she… she what _loved him_? Surely not, _not really_. She had come out to say thank you, but now she felt like keeping it from him. If he was going to keep his reasons for saving her, then she would keep her thanks.

She was saved from saying anything more as the door opened and Tubbs came in with a food service trolley. The three of them ate in relative silence, Sherlock didn’t eat at all.

Irene quickly found out everything she didn’t know. Harry Tubbs was a man from New York City, New York who helped people out of tight spots. He was a specialist at creating fake IDs and passports, school records and credit information, anything that would be needed to start a new life. Sherlock had assumed a fake name as well; Harry kept referring to him as _Mr. Locke_. When he finally asked Irene what her name was a small shake of Sherlock’s head had told her to lie as well.

“Addison” she supplied quickly and with a smile.

“You may not know this Addison,” he said “but I was driving the car that night we save your ass.”

“Oh, well thank you Tubbs, I knew I was safe when I reached the car. You don’t know how grateful I am.” This was it; she should just add “ _to the both of you_ ” it would be so easy. But the words died on her lips, and still Sherlock said nothing.

Along with the clothes Sherlock had brought her a book, a mystery, and Irene spent the rest of the day reading in the chair in the little sitting area. She paid little to no attention to Sherlock and Tubbs who were both huddled around a laptop. After another light meal and more polite conversation with Tubbs Irene couldn’t handle it and retired to the room for the remainder of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those familiar with American History will know of a woman named Harriet Tubman, if you haven't heard of her, please look her up, she was an amazing woman. She helped many slaves to freedom after reaching freedom herself. I only hope to do her memory justice for borrowing her name for my OC Harold (Harry) Tubbs.


	2. History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene finds out where she will be moving to and as such requires a history lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Attention Cabin Pressure fans, see if you can find what I've left for you.   
> Attention music fans it didn't start out this way but I have used several song titles as parts of dialogue, see if you can find them.   
> Attention History buffs, it's really not so much history as it is facts about where they are sending Irene.

Day 4: 

When Irene woke up breakfast was already waiting for her, a whole tray of fresh fruits and nice thick slices of still warm bread which she poured a generous amount of honey over. She ate alone. Neither Sherlock nor Tubbs were there to great her. Irene curled up with her book in the chair again she was just getting to a particularly interesting part when a buzzing noise startled her. Jumping out of the chair she began looking for the source.

It was Sherlock’s mobile. She found it under one of the sofa cushions and grabbed it just as it stopped ringing. _10 missed calls_ , read the display. Irene scrolled through them, the calls were from three different numbers none of which were saved contacts. Sherlock also had two text messages waiting for him from John W. they were both short and Irene could read them without having to open the actual message. The first read ‘ _What’s in the fridge?_ ’ and the second, posted two hours later said ‘ _got it sorted._ ’ Living with him must be a real nightmare, Irene thought, good thing that’ll never be me. The missed calls she assumed were from Mycroft they had started sometime after midnight. Two were land line numbers and the third was a mobile.

He obviously hadn’t told anyone where he was going, or if he had he lied. No one knew he had come to save her. Mycroft was obviously highly suspicious, if he kept calling while it was assumed Sherlock was working a foreign case. Irene toyed with the idea of calling back one of the numbers then using better judgement simply put the phone back where she found it. If Sherlock needed it he could find it on his own.

Sherlock and Tubbs didn’t return back to the hotel room until well after noon and Irene had switched on the TV when reading had started to make her too sleepy. They were chatting away to each other as they entered the room.

“It’s not a viable route Sherman, I’m sorry, we’ll have to find another connection somewhere.” said Tubbs holding the door for Sherlock who was carrying a stack of books and maps.

“No, that won’t do, I’ve hired you to do a job, you’ll figure it out or you won’t get paid.” Sherlock said rather harshly.

Irene burst out laughing from her spot on the sofa.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes are her, but when he spoke it was to Tubbs again, “Tubbs, why don’t you go grab us some tea and biscuits, I could use something light.”

“Yes Mr. Locke, I’ll be right back.” Tubbs game a small smile to Irene before heading back out the door.

Irene stopped laughing when Sherlock’s ice glare returned to her.

“ _Sherman Locke_ ” she hissed at him, “the master of disguise, and that’s the best you could come up with?”

“Oh, and I suppose you could do better?” Sherlock shot back, “what would you have picked, _Addison_?”

“That’s not fair; I didn’t have time to plan for that!” She yelled back, jumping to her feet in the heat of the moment, then softening her voice said “I don’t know something from Shakespeare perhaps. _Hamlet_ maybe, you’re mad enough.” This was it, the fight she’s been itching for since she woke up.

“Dull.” Said Sherlock huffing then an evil glint caught in the corner of his eye and Irene emotionally braced herself. Yesterday it was kisses and now she was romanticizing him as some kind of tragic prince. Honestly, it’s all been done before, he thought.

The corner of his lip twitched and in a cool calculated voice he said “does that make you Ophelia or Gertrude.” He cocked his eyebrow at her. _Your move_ it said.

“Oh” Irene made a little surprised noise “so you do know Shakespeare?” her words were no longer tinted with venom but a light air of curiosity.

“I know _Hamlet_.” Sherlock countered malice still present with his words. “ _To be, or not To be_.” He began pacing around the room and Irene watched his movements “perhaps the most famous speech in the world. Do you know what it is about?” he asked turning back to face her.

Irene remained silent.

“Death” he whispered, almost right in her ear, the way one would whisper the name of a lover, “the contemplation of suicide, _to sleep, to dream no more_.”

Irene tried not to think about why Sherlock was so intimate with that knowledge. Why such morbid thought were kept safely away in his vaults of memory. Vaguely she wondered if given the chance to check, would faded white lines mar the inside of his pale wrists? But more urgent thoughts crept back into her mind. If she were to indulge Sherlock as some haughty prince, was she the fair Ophelia? Would she drown in a river of sorrows if he did not return her affection? Or, like the proud widowed Queen of Denmark, would she ignore him now and turn to someone else for affection.

“Either way you better start thinking.” He said, “make it a good one because it’s going to be something a little more permanent.”

“How much longer I am stuck here with you?” she asked just to goad him.

“Three more days” he answered turning his back to her. “We leave here Sunday morning.”

“It’s the end of the world as we know it” said Irene in defeat, was being stuck in this living Hell better than being dead. Irene was beginning to wonder.

“Yes, and I feel _fine_.” Sherlock said as he began digging at the sofa cushions, looking for his mobile.

\-----------------------------------------------

That night Sherlock went out again and Irene spent some time talking with Harry.

“So do the two of you share the pullout bed or does he make you sleep on the floor?” Irene asked around her rice dish.

“Oh, no he hasn’t slept that I’ve seen,” said Harry shaking his head. “or if he has it’s been in the chairs.”

“Chair” corrected Irene, “there’s only one.” She pointed at it to emphasise her point.

“No, there’s one in your room too. He spent that whole first night in there, monitoring your breathing and stuff.”

“Oh.” Irene was more than a little surprised; she didn’t think Sherlock was capable of caring for someone like that. Well someone who wasn’t John. When she had looked through Sherlock’s phone there was only two saved contacts John W. and DI Lestrade respectfully. The only other messages were the ones from her or Mycroft. Mycroft’s always came from different numbers but he at least signed off on his.

This was more than she had expected “pinch me” she sighed.

When Tubbs moved to comply Irene moved and said “not really.”

Sherlock did not return before Irene went to bed that night.

Day 5:

When Irene got up on the morning of the fifth day again a tray of fresh fruit and bread awaited her along with a steaming pot of coffee. Unlike the day before she was not alone, both Sherlock and Harry were waiting for her. Sherlock was pouring over the maps he had brought up the day before and Harry was typing away furiously at the computer.

“Oh good, you’re up.” said Tubbs turning to greet Irene with a smile. “I hope you slept well?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.” she replied with a small smile of her own.

“We’ve got a busy day today” he added turning back the flickering screen.

“Oh?” she asked.

“Paperwork, lots and lots of paperwork; I hope you’ve thought of a name?”

Irene frowned; she really hadn’t spent that much time on it even though Sherlock had mentioned it days before.

“But first Canada!” Tubbs said triumphantly.

“Canada?” She questioned.

“Yes, it’s all settled, you’ll move to Canada under your new name. Make a proper life there.” Tubbs explained.

“Perfect” Irene hissed going over to look at the screen. “I’ve a distant cousin that lives in Ontario, perhaps-”

“No.” Sherlock cut off from his spot on the sofa.

“What do you mean _no_?” Irene asked rounding on him.

“No as in Nein, Non, Ni, Nie, Na, Não, Nej, Niet. You can’t, fake name, new life.” He didn’t stand up but at least raised his head to meet her piercing gaze.

“Then where would you have me go, to Nunavut?” she could no longer contain the anger that had been threaten to boil over for days.

“Halifax” he said not looking up her but instead continuing to poor over the maps on the table.

She was taken aback, “Halifax? But that’s-”

“Tubbs” Sherlock’s tone said _deal with it_.

The man did not need to be asked twice, without hesitation Tubbs brought up a site that he had bookmarked earlier.

Founded in 1749 as the Town of Halifax it later became the base for the capture of the Fortress Louisbourg, with the building of Fort George on Citadel Hill, and continued to operate as a major naval base, even today the Halifax Dock Yard was the site for the head of Canada’s East Cost Navy. Over all the capitol of Nova Scotia seemed like a quiet place where one went to relax. A nice spot to visit but Irene really wouldn’t want to live there long term.

“It’s where Canada goes to retire.” said Irene voicing her thoughts aloud. In her peripheral vision Irene saw Sherlock’s lip twitch up. “Is that what I’m doing?” she asked, “retiring?”

“You need a nice quiet place where you can lie low for a bit. Think of it as an extended vacation.” Sherlock gave her one of his false smiles his lips pulled tight over his teeth.

\---------------------------------------

Sherlock had actually put a lot of thought into where he should send her. Sure she could live in Douz or Timbuktu and he could care less but, if she really wanted to start over proper with a new life. Besides she could still be in danger, if someone connected to Moriarty found out she was still alive, well she wouldn’t be for long. His first though had been to send her to America, but even American’s ran away to Canada. This was fine, as far as Sherlock could tell Moriarty had no connections there and Irene wasn’t blackmailing any of its residents. Mycroft then was his only barrier. While he didn’t think Mycroft’s arm reached quite that far, well it was still part of the Commonwealth so he had to be careful.

He had settled on Nova Scotia and its capitol city as the best choice, with its picturesque fishing villages and proximity to the Ocean. No one would think to look for a dead woman there, least of all Irene who was all about high fashion and expense. If he had been feeling vindictive he could have sent her someplace truly remote, he could picture her now in a winter parker cursing his name for sending her to someplace she couldn’t pronounce like, Qikiqtarjuaq.

\----------------------------------

“All you need now is a name.” said Tubbs cutting through Sherlock’s thoughts.

“I have a suggestion.” said Sherlock suddenly deciding to become vocal, Irene had been itching for a row he could feel it. He kept denying her the satisfaction but his own pent up anger was brought to the surface and he had to get it out.

“Oh, you do? Let’s hear it” Irene was genuinely curious after both of them insulting each other’s false identities the other day she couldn’t imagine what he’d have to offer.

Sherlock’s lips twisted into a cruel smile “how about _Heartless Bitch_.” He spat.

In an instant Irene was livid, “Oh that’s rich, _coming from you_.” She snapped back.

“You’re right, _I’m sorry_ ” he said with mock sincerity, “I meant _Ungrateful_ Heartless Bitch.” He hadn’t meant for the words to come out. Not really. They sounded awful even for him. She hadn’t said _thank you_ , and he thought it didn’t bother him. He was wrong, as the word ungrateful crossed his lips he knew it bothered him more than he wanted to admit, which was ironic because he so rarely said the words himself.

Irene clapped a hand to her mouth and tears sprung from her ducks, that had hurt, where had all these hateful words come from? She wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t give in, she turned her shock into anger and was poised to slap Sherlock clean across the face when Tubbs intervened.

In one swift movement he had jumped up from the desk chair and was behind Irene, his right hand over her right wrist, his left arm around her waist holding her to him. Sherlock stood in front of her looking down his nose at his eyes were steel.

 _She would not cry_. _She would not_ , “Bastard” she hissed straining against Tubbs’ hold on her meeting Sherlock’s’ gaze with one of her own. Show no fear, let him intimidate her.

“I am” he hissed back, leaning in close. They were so close eye to eye, nose to nose, they could have kissed. Suddenly he straightened up, and walked past them into the bedroom beyond. He slammed the door shut behind him.

Irene shivered and collapsed to her knees on the floor, Tubbs let her, and she cried. Heaving silent sobs she cried.

Unfortunately the day was only early and there was lots of work to be done. Tubbs handed Irene a piece of paper with a list of questions she may need to know the answers to in order to pass being a Canadian citizen.

“Who is on the five dollar bill? What is the Capitol of Canada and what provenience is it located in? What ‘common’ animal is found on the one dollar coin which gives it its nickname? How am I supposed to learn all this in a few days?” Irene asked exasperated.

“It’s just some basic questions, they might not even ask you anything, but we need to be prepared. It’s not the Canadian Border agents I’m worried about; it’s the other borders we have to cross. Here is our travel plan so far.” Tubbs brought up a Word Document that showed their travel path, they had to drive over two borders just to get out of the country they would then fly to Cremona from Cremona to Paris, Paris to Reykjavik, Reykjavik to Boston, and finally Boston to New York. Then after about a week they would drive from New York straight up to Calais Maine crossing the border into St. Stephen New Brunswick.

Tubbs switched the pages and went back to working on Irene’s passport and other important documents she might need. She had finally decided on a name, Beatrice Adel Dare, it had a nice ring to it she thought. Beatrice had been her paternal grandmother’s name while Adel had been her maternal grandmother’s name. Dare was the last name of her first girlfriend and while some people might think that to be sentimental, she didn’t plan on telling anyone, it had to be believed this is the name she was born with. It was a happy coincidence that her new initials spelled BAD.

Irene spent the rest of the afternoon practicing her new signature and catching up on Canadian facts.

Tubbs and Irene ordered room service for supper and Tubbs quizzed Irene.

“Who was the first Prime Minister of Canada?” he asked taking a bite of chicken.

“Abraham Lincoln?” Irene asked, turning what should have been a sure answer into a question.

“No” said Tubbs shaking his head “Lincoln was the sixteenth president of the United States; the correct answer is Sir John A MacDonald.” He added reading off the paper, damn if he knew. “Tell me a fact, what’s something interesting you learned today?”

“Their national holiday is July First!” Irene said with excitement, pleased to have remembered something. History had never been her favourite subject in school.

“Good, that’s good. Okay now, money. What are the values of their bills and their respective colors?” Tubbs asked taking another bite.

“The Queen is on green, I remember that because it rhymes.”

“Very good, but what’s she worth?”

“Ten- Twenty, she’s on the Twenty dollar bill, which is green.”

“The Five?”

“The five is blue, and the ten is purple.” Irene stated, she wasn’t sure why this mattered, she could figure out the money when she had to pay for something with it.

“Correct, and the fifty?”

“Ginger.” Irene was answering confidently now but Tubbs was staring at her, “oh damn its _red_ isn’t it?”

Tubbs nodded and Irene continued, “The last one is 100, and the 100 dollar bill is brown.”

“Who is on the five dollar bill?”

“Oh, I know this one its Willy right?” Irene had come up with short cuts to remember some of the answers but now she only remembered the short cuts. Tubbs was shaking his head at her.

“They won’t let you in if you call him Willy.” He said trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. “Try again” he encouraged.

“It must be a _Sir_ , their all _Sirs._ ” She said racking her brain to find the answer. Tubbs nodded to confirm she was on the right train of thought.

“Sir William, NO! Wilfred. Sir Wilfred Laurier”

“And he was?”

“Pres- Prime Minister from 1896 to 1911”

“Correct” Tubbs trilled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to make Irene a total bimbo, she is an intelligent woman, I just assume she wouldn't know all that much about Canada especially the types of questions I have her brushing up on. I have no intention of making it sound easy to get into Canada, I have no idea what it might involve. Please do not smuggle yourself into my country but I'd be glad to see you visit.   
> Any non-Canadians know the answers to the questions I put in here?   
> Who is on the five dollar bill? Sir Wilfred Laurier (as answered later)   
> What is the Capitol of Canada and what provenience is it located in? Ottawa and Ontario respectively.   
> What ‘common’ animal is found on the one dollar coin which gives it its nickname? The Loon or Common Loon. Our one dollar coin is affectionately known as the Loonie, and the two dollar coin is a Toonie. Yeah, we're creative.   
> Also I am a proud Nova Scotian but I know we have an aging population and it kind of is where Canadians go to retire. On our licence plates we have the slogan "Canada's Ocean Playground"


	3. Dare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene learns more interesting facts about Canada. Sherlock remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody else notice how each of my chapters get longer and longer. This was originally meant to be a one shot + Epilogue then I had the bright idea to divide it into chapters. This story was always meant to be a prequel to something I've been working on since last June. I don't have nearly enough written to be satisfied to start posting but I am working on getting down some of my ideas for it. 
> 
> This fic was seriously lacking in Sherlock's POV so here is some flash back Sherlock POV.

Sherlock had slammed the door behind him making the windows rattle in their frame, much to his satisfaction. Sometimes The Woman was just too much to handle. Damn it she was frustrating. He had forgotten how much her presence had affected him, how he had mourned for her the first time. Was it so selfish to wish to not go through that again? When he had received intelligence that The Woman was in danger he had sprung into action doing everything in his power to make sure she would be safe. He could not let her die, not when her blood would be on his hands. The weight of his guilt would be too much. He glared at the chair in the corner where he had spent most of those first two days.

Day 1: 

“ _Run_ ” Sherlock’s voice was low, meant only for Irene to hear. Her very life depended on it. He was beyond pleased when she obeyed. He swung the sword and she ducked low. The curved blade ripped through the captor. The rest was a blur, a mad dash to the exit, sliding into the Audi, Sherlock giving the demand to Tubbs to “Drive,” Irene collapsing in his arms, and him cradling her limp frame all the way to the hotel.

He spent the rest of the long night in her room, barely leaving the chair, only to check her pulse and breathing every five minutes. He didn’t sleep.

Day 2: 

The morning light crept into the room slow at first and then in a sudden brightness that made Sherlock wish he had something to cover his eyes with. He walked over to check Irene’s vitals _again_ , he was only checking every half-hour now. He would never forgive himself if something happened, if she _died_. He couldn’t, not knowing how close they were. She was dehydrated.

He set up a makeshift saline drip. Sherlock spent most of that day pacing back and forth between the two rooms. Tubbs brought him food, but Sherlock couldn’t eat it, not when Irene just laid there. He had thoroughly worn a path out in the carpet when Tubbs grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to take a sit. Reluctantly Sherlock obeyed his knees collapsing out from under him.

“She’s doing fine man, she’ll be _fine_ , stop worrying about her and just sit for a few, yeah.” Tubbs encouraged playing up his New York accent.

Sherlock sat for thirty minutes exactly. He didn’t need to look at the time to know he just knew. He was in the room again kneeling beside the bed checking Irene’s pulse. It was weak but steady, just like every other time he checked it. What was he looking for? Did he suddenly expect to feel a jump in her pulse, like he had _that_ night? Why should he, and why did it matter if he did? He turned and sat on the floor propping his back against the bed.

“Caring is not an advantage, you know” he spoke aloud “it doesn’t save lives. I, I had a dog once. Man’s best friend and all that. Like all first pets he taught me how to care. I learned to care by looking after the dog’s needs. Then the unthinkable happens, like all first loves he taught me that it didn’t matter. He _died_ , as animals do, and I was left with a broken heart. It didn’t matter that I cared about him, he died anyway. After that I learned not to get so attached.” Sherlock paused in his thought process, why was he telling Irene all this, it’s not like she could hear him.

“The problem with not getting attached is, you sometimes do anyway. And the harder you try not to care about something the more you find yourself caring. Look at John for instance; he was just supposed to be someone to share the rent with. Now my livelihood depends on him and his _bloody_ blog.” It felt good to talk aloud and knowing Irene would register none of this made it easier.

“You told him that he and I were in a relationship. He denied it, but he’s wrong. It’s not a _romantic_ relationship, _certainly not_ , but everybody has some type of relationship with another person. He’s my flatmate, co-worker, sales representative, image consultant, he basically is my PR department and God help me but I care, about him. Possibly more than Mycroft, defiantly more, but like a brother I suppose. What’s that word, _bro-mance_? I love him _like_ I would a brother. Ridiculous concept.” Sherlock fell silent, and eventually fell asleep for a few hours.

Day 3:

When Sherlock woke his neck was stiff and it was dark in the room. Had he really slept the whole day? He checked his watch for the time but he hadn’t changed it, the bed side clock read sometime after mid-night on Tuesday. After checking Irene’s vitals he got up and went into the other room. Tubbs was asleep on the pullout bed and Sherlock tried not to wake him as he exited the hotel room. He was capable of common courtesy after all. Knowing Irene would be fine for sure had eased his mind. She had just been too hard on herself. The shock to her system had put it in ‘sleep mode’ she would wake up fully restored in no time.

Later that morning Sherlock sent Tubbs to go in and check on The Woman, she should be waking up soon and he didn’t want to resend her back into shock, or deal with conversations. They already had large portions of the plan ready to mobilize but Sherlock had allowed himself seven days to get everything in order and damn it he’d use the time he’d allotted himself. Where Irene and her safety were concerned everything had to be perfect.

After a couple minutes he could here Tubbs talking and Irene replying, she was awake oh good. He yelled for Tubbs and then made preparations to go out and pick up a few things for The Woman’s benefit.

On his way back for the second time John rang his Mobile chattering on about a case in Edinburgh Mycroft wanted him to take. Top-secret, hush-hush, and all that “I’ll be home by Saturday, I promise.” Somehow saying it out loud made it truer, “send my love to Mycroft” he added sarcastically. That would teach the pompous git for trying to put his bulbous nose in places it had no business being.

\----------------------------------------

Sherlock launched himself into the corner chair, repulsed by the very site of the bed where _she_ had laid.

Hours later he could still hear them talking on the other side of the door. Tubbs was quizzing Irene on possible Canadian facts she may need to know to cross borders. He heard them order room service and was thankful they had decided not to disturb him. He did not leave the room, or the chair, for the rest of the night. He did not fall asleep. Questions that had no answer kept circling around in his mind, _did it_ bother him she hadn’t said _thank you_? Should it? Why did it? Did he in fact _care_? _Was_ it more than guilt that had pushed him into saving her?

Tubbs let Irene sleep on the pullout, he had to finish the work on her passport, ID card and other fake certificates.

Day 6: 

“It looks like a _bloody_ Pride Flag” Irene observed of the colourful money laid out before her.

Tubbs had managed to buy a hundred seventy-seven dollars and ten cents in Canadian money from the hotel safe. It wasn’t much, just enough for it to be plausible. It also made learning much easier.

Irene was now the proud owner of 2 fifty-dollar bills, 3 twenty’s , a ten, a five, a Toonie which had polar bears on it, and a dime which had a ship on it.

“It would have been nice to have this _yesterday_ ” Irene complained

“I know, but you have them _now_. And it’s not a _ship_ , it’s called a _schooner._ The _Bluenose_ to be precise, it was quite the famous racing schooner built in Nova Scotia you know.”

When Sherlock finally exited the bedroom they were still going on about useless facts.

“Did you know, that Nova Scotians are also known as _Bluenosers_ and that the name comes from a ship that was built there?” Irene quipped. If she had expected Sherlock to answer, she was sorely mistaken.

They did not speak to each other for the rest of the day.

At about nine o’clock that night Sherlock stood up from his spot on the sofa and announced, “I am going to bed” and started making his way toward the room.

“That’s not fair, poor Tubbs didn’t sleep last night because I was out here.” Irene protested.

“Well I haven’t slept in a bed atoll the entire time we’ve been here.” Sherlock countered.

“And whose fault is that? I am sleeping in that bed tonight.” Irene got up and marched after him, she shut the door behind her, and stood in front of it in an attempt to barricade the way out.

Sherlock had stalked over to the window. Irene huffed out her frustrations then a thought occurred to her. They were alone, she would let him be if he’d just answer one question for her.

“Why did you save me?” There it was out; she finally had the guts to say it. She closed her eyes and stiffened her resolve waiting for the non-answer she was sure to receive. More denial and refusals, perhaps they’d have another massive row. A proper domestic. She’d take whatever it was he wanted to give her. After tomorrow they’d never have to see each other again.

“It was my fault.” He said, barely above a whisper. He was looking out the window but didn’t see anything.

“What?” Irene asked, confusion leaking into her voice. Where was the yelling, the “no’s”, the “it’s none of your business.”

“It was my fault you were there in the first place.” He repeated, a little louder, leaving no doubt about her hearing.

“No, Sherlock, no-” She protested shaking her head.

“Yes, Irene, don’t you understand, I took your protection away.” He turned to look at her but the cold steel that she was used to seeing in his eyes was gone. He thrust his fist into his chest.

Irene stared at him in stunned silence.

“That night, in Mycroft’s office, I was going to let you _win_.” He turned away from her; he couldn’t bear to look at her face.

“Letting you win was easier then admitting I’d been fooled. In your eyes you’d already beat me. I told Mycroft to give into your demands, to hush you up. And then you ruined it all. _You_ destroyed the illusion I’d created by mentioning _his_ name.” at this Sherlock turned back around. Marching towards Irene and pointing a finger at her.

“I don’t know all that he told you, how he expected me to react, he never could have predicted… ‘Jim Moriarty sends his _love’._ ” Sherlock spat the last word so violently spit sprayed part of Irene’s face. She didn’t blink just nonchalantly whipped it away.

Sherlock about faced and began pacing back the other way. “ _love_ ” she heard him echo, “I remembered everything from before and it suddenly made me angry. I don’t know why, but I just couldn’t, and then it all clicked into place.” Sherlock tapped his fingers into his brain.

“So stupid, I thought, so simple, _she_ would never… but _you_ did. You thought you were being _cleaver_ but, and I knew I had you. The look on your face when you didn’t think I’d do it.” His voice softened out at the end. He was mostly talking to himself, Irene was having a hard time following his one sided conversation.

Sherlock turned and forced himself to make eye contact once more. Irene’s hand hung limply over her mouth and silent tears ran down her eyes. He had cruelly taken away her protection, but knowing she wouldn’t survive without it had come to save her. Irene felt, hurt and angry, and sad and happy, all at the same time. What did it all mean? Had he saved her because _she_ loved him? Or because he _loved_ her in return? Or simply because he felt _guilty_? Did it matter?

The emotional overload had Irene so confused she didn’t know if she wanted to hit Sherlock or kiss him. She felt momentum moving her forward and she folded herself around his body in a hug. She rubbed her face over his chest and her tears stained his expensive silk shirt.

“Thank you” she said into his chest, “thank you, thank you, thank you.”

From the moment she had pulled him into an embrace Sherlock had frozen. He didn’t know what to expect from Irene, he had no way to calculate her reaction to his confession. Now her arms were entwined, resting on his back, and her face pressed up against his chest, no doubt ruing his favourite shirt with her teary eyes and possibly snotty nose. Then she was thanking him, and Sherlock wasn’t even sure what for. _Telling the truth_? Surely not, that had been brutally laid out.

Suddenly she shifted and looking up into his eyes, hers still glistening, she said “Thank you for saving my life.”

“You’re welcome” he said seriously.

Irene nuzzled back into his chest and he let his head drop, coming to rest his chin on the top of her head. At the same time he brought his arms up and rubbed Irene’s back a few times with his hands. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but it felt, logical. He was grateful when Irene stepped back, dry eyed and a faint smile on her lips.

“Let’s get some rest. We’ve both got a long day of travelling tomorrow.” She flashed him a weak smile then turned and made her way to the bed. Sherlock followed her.

Day 7: 

They had fallen asleep on opposite sides of the king size bed. Neither one willing to admit they needed human comfort.

When Irene woke up there was something warm and solid beneath her head, and a possessive arm draped across her back. Wait, _an arm_? Where had that come from? Lifting her head gently Irene noticed it was Sherlock’s broad chest she was using as a pillow and she was ever grateful it was a t-shirt clad chest.

When Sherlock woke up it was to the sound of the shower running and a sudden chill. He must have moved the blanket recently because a part of his chest right over his heart was still warm. No, that wasn’t right; he put his hand out to pat the left side of the bed. Hadn’t someone else been here, John? No, _not John_ , he sniffed, _Irene_. He and Irene had fallen asleep on opposite sides of the bed, Sherlock remembered closing his eyes while facing the wall on his right side. So how was he now laying in the almost exact centre of the bed, on his back, facing the room? Usually when he slept he didn’t move positions so much.

Check out was 11:30am sharp.

Irene and Tubbs would leave first at eleven and Sherlock would leave half-hour later.

When Irene exited the bedroom Tubbs was gone to get the car and Sherlock was on his phone.

“Tell Mycroft I’m taking the Edinburgh case. No, I couldn’t get a direct flight, I have to fly from here to Abu Dhabi, to St. Petersburg, to Edinburgh. No, no I’ll meet you there. Jane and Brian Wilson got it.” He hung up and took a seat on the sofa.

“Well Mrs. Dare, all ready to leave, I see.” He said.

“It’s Miss. actually, I’m not married.” Irene toyed wiggling her fingers at him. She was glad they were back to friendly banter instead of intense shouting matches.

“What happened to using Shakespeare for inspiration?”

“Well Beatrice _is_ the name of a rather feisty female character in _Much Ado about Nothing_ , I rather fancy her actually.”

“Did you know same-sex marriage has been legal in Canada since July 20th 2005 and in Nova Scotia since September 2004?” Sherlock asked.

“No, I didn’t.” Irene said with mild surprise, she’d never really thought about marriage, much.

“That means if you find someone to be with, you can marry them.” Honestly where were these words coming from, he should just shut up, let her go.

“Odds are I won’t though, I never fancied myself the marring type.” She answered. “Dominatrix come Housewife, not exactly a keeper am I. Not the sort of girl you bring home to dad.” A sad smile crossed her face, where was Tubbs, they needed to leave soon.

“What would you do, if you had a million dollars?” Sherlock asked suddenly breaking the almost awkward silence.

“If I had a million dollars, I’d be rich, wouldn’t I? I don’t know.”

“Well I would buy a house first.” Sherlock pulled a thin piece of paper from his suit jacket pocket and Irene clutched her hand to her chest.

“Consider it compensation, from Mycroft’s account, of course. Or your pension fund, either way, you can’t start a new life with no money.” He handed the check to her and Irene’s hand shook violently as she slipped it in her purse.

“I, Mr. Holmes, I don’t know what to say.” Irene was on the verge of tears again, happy tears.

“Don’t say good-bye, never say good-bye.” They were making eye contact, at some point Sherlock had made his way over to her, they were standing so close.

Irene was sure Sherlock would be able to hear the pounding in her chest but she didn’t care. That look in his eyes told her everything. Her trembling chin was being held in his slender fingers, she had nothing to lose. This was it, after today they may very well never see each other again. Sentiment be damned, Irene launched herself at him, their lips connected and her arms slid around his neck, she kissed him. She didn’t know for how long just that she had to perch on her tippy-toes and that it was soft and warm, no tongue just lips, all that she had ever wanted and when she pulled away she was smiling because he had closed his eyes, and he had kissed her back.

Safely on the other side of the door Irene leaned against it to catch her breath. In that moment she knew for certain, she was Ophelia, and she would choose to be Ophelia every time. Drowning had been worth the wait.

When Sherlock opened his eyes it was too an empty room, his mouth was suddenly dry and he felt empty in a new strange way. He walked through the hotel room once more but everything was already gone. Tubbs had taken what meagre possessions Irene had with him when he left earlier, his stuff was packed and waiting by the door. Walking past the bathroom Sherlock took a moment to glance in the mirror. He approached it like a man who wasn’t sure what he might see.

Much to his dismay, he didn’t look any different. Tentatively he brought his finger tips to his lips. It was the worst trick The Woman had ever pulled.

“Caring is not an advantage.” He told his reflection, he flick off the light and made to leave the hotel room altogether when something caught his eye.

Left on the desk was a pad of hotel paper where Irene had practiced her new signature. That was evidence, damn it, he’d have to take it with him. Sherlock was admiring her rather neat cursive when one of the signatures a few pages in stuck out, one of these things is not like the other.

Right in the middle was three words together Sherlock thought he’d never see; never want to see, until now:

Mrs. Irene Holmes


	4. Epilouge

Almost 45 hours later, give or take time zones, Irene and Tubbs were safe in Tubbs New York apartment. She was so close to freedom. There had only been one spot of trouble when the border agent in Paris asked Irene what the national sport of Canada was. Leave it to a Frenchmen to not trust a woman with a British accent and a Canadian Passport, or maybe he was just trying to test her.

From New York Irene scoured real-estate websites to find the perfect home to start her new life in. She also went on a shopping spree picking up enough new clothes to start her own store. She picked up a good pair of trainers and several athletic outfits, with the idea of starting jogging. She also signed up for an online massage therapy class. Whatever money she didn’t use would go into a savings account as a ‘just in case’ fund, be damned if she wouldn’t make her own way in the world. Legitimately. Four days later they were on the road again. Irene was supposed to have spent a week in New York but another job had come up for Tubbs, one he couldn’t refuse.

They did hit one spot of trouble crossing the Maine- New Brunswick border when the man pointed out Irene’s drivers licence was due for renewal. She thanked the border agent for his kind reminder and they were on their way again. When they reached Moncton, the last stop before hitting the highway that would bring them to Nova Scotia Tubbs asked her if she wanted to stop here for the night. When he explained that it was only about another three and a half hour drive to her new home Irene said ‘go for it.’

Tubbs stopped the car on the other side of the Cobequid Pass in the little town of Amherst he need to refuel both the car and himself. Irene had fallen asleep at some point but woke up to the strong smell of coffee.

“What’s that” she asked Tubbs as he got back into the driver’s seat of the car.

“Tim’s, don’t worry, I got you one, and a chocolate glaze to go with.”

“What’s a _Tim’s_?” It _smelled_ like coffee, “and Chocolate glazed _what_?” her mind was still foggy with sleep.

“Doughnut” said Tubbs producing the circle of fried dough. “Thought we could use a sugar pick-me-up. I don’t know how you like your coffee so I just got you a medium double, double.”

Irene had taken a large bite of the doughnut and was thoroughly chewing it when she asked, “double what?”

“Two milk, two sugar, it’s easier to say _double, double_.” Tubbs explained; _Canadians_ and their weird language.

When they finally reached Halifax they stayed in a hotel room Irene had booked. Tubbs would be leaving in the morning, driving back to New York without delay; Irene would be staying at the hotel a few more nights while she furniture shopped for her new house.

Irene sat on the bed and looked out at the dark water below her. The city really was right on the water. Maybe she would get a boat, learn how to sail. She couldn’t wait to visit the bars and see the sites. She wanted to tour the Citadel and walk along the waterfront. She would go and do the driver’s test and get her own car. All of these were great ideas and in time Irene might do them all but there was one thing she had to do first.

\--------------------------------------------------

One morning after the Baskerville case John went down to fetch the post. Since Sherlock’s return from India they had had several interesting cases. First was the Edinburgh case which was so hush-hush John wasn’t even allowed to mention it on his blog, but that was okay because then they’d had the Macbeth case, which Sherlock forbade him to write up because they couldn’t solve it, but they’d just had the very successful Baskerville case which John did write up so he was in a good mood.

John shuffled through the stack as he ascended the stairs, two envelops were defiantly bills, the third might be an invitation to something, and

“Sherlock we got a post card saying thank-you from the Wilsons, isn’t that nice.”

Sherlock merely hummed from his seat at the kitchen table.

“And another postcard from, Sherlock, do we know anyone living in Nova Scotia?”

“No.”

“To Mr. S Homes” John read aloud, “Thank you again for all your wonderful help. I really like it here, please visit soon. Sincerely, Beatrice A Dare. Your India case?”

“Possibly.” Sherlock’s mouth had gone dry. Of all the ways for her to let him know she made it there alive she sent a bloody post card.

“P.S.” John continued reading, “do you know what the national sport of Canada is? Hockey, isn’t it?”

“Wrong.”

John blinked for a minute mouth frozen, “what do you mean _wrong_?”

“Technically it’s lacrosse.” Sherlock supplied.

“You, who knows nothing about sports, or Canada, knows that Canada’s national sport is Lacrosse?” John was genuinely baffled.

“Yes, if don’t believe me, go look it up.” Sherlock had no patience for this today.

John set down the post and walked up stairs to get his computer. Sherlock waited until John was almost to the top stair before pounding on the card from Irene. On the front was a picture of the ‘Old Town Clock’ which sat in front of the fort facing the waterfront, across it in bold letter read Greetings from Halifax, Nova Scotia.

Sherlock was still re-reading the cursive on the back, as though it held the secrets of the universe, when John came bounding back down the stairs, “actually they changed it in 1994, Lacrosse is now Canada’s official Summer sport, while Hockey is the official Winter sport” like he actually gave a toss. There was something about the way Sherlock was looking at the postcard that made John wonder who this Dare woman was. He had only ever seen one woman have any effect on Sherlock, and John new for a fact she was dead.

“Yes of course.” Sherlock said, he sounded like he was a million miles away, on the other side of the Atlantic. Vaguely he wondered what the time difference between London and Halifax was, what was she doing right now, would she be asleep or out at her favourite new restaurant. Had she found someone, maybe a nice girl who had grown up fishing? What was Irene’s new personality like? Had she lain low for a while, just relaxing and enjoying the fact she didn’t have to work, or had she gotten herself a job just to keep busy and not think about things.

Sherlock had no answers to these questions. He didn’t know and if he was lucky they would never see each other again.

Lucky for him, he wasn’t lucky.

June 17th:“I’m not dead, let’s have dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for playing along, I really hope you all enjoyed this.   
> now as I promised: for the Cabin Pressure fans, how many episode titles did I list?   
> and Music fans, How many Barenaked Ladies song titles did I manage to squeeze in? 
> 
> A sequel for this will be coming at some point, I just don't know when. It will be called "When September Ends" and sticking with my (sort of) Shakespeare theme will be loosely based on Much Ado About Nothing. This story also makes reference to my already published fic The World's A Stage. If you like Sherlock and Shakespeare together then you'll love this fic.
> 
> Answers are:  
> CP the correct answer should be 9   
> BL including the title it should be 6   
> Thanks again!

**Author's Note:**

> A note on spelling: because Tubbs is American, I will use the American spelling of words when he speaks, i.e he would say "color" not "colour," and "ass" not "arse"


End file.
